


Who’s most afraid of death?

by havisham



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, really, it has gone on too long, being unchallenged. So when Jim finds the detective, in between dizzying bouts of happiness, there is still a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that perhaps Sherlock isn’t as good as everyone says. </p><p>He might not be. </p><p>People can be <i>so</i> disappointing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who’s most afraid of death?

**Author's Note:**

> My first crack at _Sherlock_ fic, and feels AU for all that it's not _strictly_ AU.

__

> Or with thy mind against my mind, to hear  
> nearing our heart’s irrevocable play —  
> through the mysterious high futile day 
> 
> an enormous stride  
> (and drawing thy mouth toward  
> my mouth, steer our lost bodies carefully downward.)  
> 

 

 _All right. Look here --_ these are his humble beginnings, there are his apologetic and ordinary parents, so worried about their boy, there are his first few cases. 

Well, Napoleon started off as a foot-soldier, didn’t he? 

Look, things pick up. He rises, higher and higher. He’s called a genius (a perverted genius of the first degree.) They pay him, their hands twitching to get at him, and they pay him so much that money no longer has any meaning to him. 

Success piles up on success. 

And it’s dull, dull, _dull..._

Just he’s about to give it up, another player appears. 

He has such hopes for Sherlock, such high, high hopes. Jim’s old therapist, if he had been still alive, would have certainly told him (glasses wobbling on his face, the good doctor suffered from a nervous condition, by the end of their professional relationship) that this is most likely _transference._

After all, isn’t it Jim’s dearest wish to have an worthy adversary? 

(It is.) 

Just to have a person who would be worth beating. 

And, really, it has gone on too long, being unchallenged. So when Jim finds the detective, in between dizzying bouts of happiness, there is still a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that perhaps Sherlock isn’t as good as everyone says. 

He might not be. 

People could be _so_ disappointing.

 

But it starts off so well, so _terribly_ well. 

In a matter of days, he’s learned as much as he cared to about Sherlock, and more besides. About his family, his schooling (not as good as it could be; his eccentric personality is to blame), his cases, even his habit of dying his ginger hair in a hideous shade of walnut-brown, the color of cigarette tar in a smoker’s lungs, or dried blood that has to be scrapped off of boot-heels, after a kill. 

(He is too pale for it, anyway.)

Sherlock. Oh, _Sherlock._ Whatever flaws he has in his appearance (which, after all, can be fixed) he makes up in audacity. In sheer, icy brilliance. 

Oh, yes, Jim shivers at the thought of Sherlock’s _brain_

Sherlock is certainly cold, cold where Jim himself runs hot. (Runs _boiling_.) 

But Sherlock is this — an icy center, over a frigid shell. Jim aches, _itches_ , longs for the opportunity to get his hands on him. Oh, oh, how he wants to be the one to crack the detective, to open him up. Wide open. 

To suck out whatever softness that could be had, and then to bite down, _hard._

He wants so much to make Sherlock _bleed._

(Jim’s sexual fantasies, at times, get confused with his power fantasies.)

( It’s not a big deal. They’re all one and the same.)

\+ 

What Jim hates more than anything is to be _ignored._ And Sherlock _ignores_ him. 

(Sherlock doesn’t know who he _is_. Or what he can _do._ Some detective he is.) 

But Jim _knows_. Sherlock’s name lingers on Jim’s tongue until it turns sour. It burns on his lips.

He imagines the conversations they will have, in the future, when they are more formally introduced. 

 

But. He hesitates. 

He watches Sherlock for a long time before making a move, before announcing himself. 

To his eternal consternation, he sees the doughty (doughy) doctor move in to 221B Baker Street. He decides that his long-term plans could do with a moving up.

It feels right. 

(It isn’t.) 

By then it is too late. 

\+ 

Molly flutters around him, all awkward angles and begging eyes. An easy mark. He worms in her life, like he belongs there, confidence oozing out of his pores. She believes him. 

For whatever that’s worth. 

(Not much.)

Oh, she’s lonely, so terribly lonely, and in need of so much validation that she’d accept it from everyone, from just about anyone. And Jim can be persuasive, when he wants to be. 

He sends a one word text and switches off his mobile. They drink bad wine, with limp spaghetti and acidic tomato sauce. Somewhere in the world, a countdown lapses. Something explodes. Lives are lost. 

(But not enough of them. Never enough.)

“Let’s talk about you. How’s work? Any interesting corpses roll in?”

Then, in between her replies, he says, “Let me visit you there sometime.”

She blushes. Hesitates. But eventually, she agrees (because she sees no reason not to.)

And because he can’t help it, he presses his advantage. (He’s always loved having inside information, of knowing what others didn’t.) So he continues, idly playing with his wineglass. “I’d love to see this Sherlock you keep talking about.” 

He leans close to her, her perfume sticks to his nostrils. “Is he really all you say he is?” 

“Are you jealous?” she says coyly. 

Her attempts at flirtation are painful to watch. If he bothers to watch, which he doesn’t. 

He breathes. “Oh, yes. Terribly.”

They go on one more date before he allows himself to visit her lab. 

Sherlock is there, of course. Showing off, for John. He uses his great (great) deductive skills and sums Jim up in a lazy glance. He makes a joke at his expense. (John smiles, then pretends not to.) 

Thus dismissed, Jim fumes. (Though, really, he pouts.) 

He had thought Sherlock would _surely_ be smarter than than that. 

But still, Jim lets him have it, the joke. So, when Sherlock looks back at this encounter, he will remember the time James Moriarty came to him and offered him … _Friendship,_ yes, friendship, and Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant sod, rejected him. 

Let him remember how short-sighted (stupid) he was. 

The more fool him. 

\+ 

Moriarty never gets his hands dirty. 

Never. 

So the detective and the doctor should feel honored that he’s there to see to their deaths himself. But of course, gratitude is ever in short supply, these days. And when his mobile rings (he knew he should have turned the fucking thing off beforehand), and their dramatic showdown is interrupted — he asks politely if anyone would mind terribly if he just took this. 

He doesn’t wait for their hurried nods. 

Afterwards, he sticks his head out the door and says, half-apologetically, “Do you mind, if we reschedule?”

Sherlock turns to John. John shrugs. “Not at all.” 

“Later then.” 

The door closes with a loud _bang._

(Someone should get that looked at.)

\+ 

Moriarty sits on a park bench and feeds the birds. 

He makes little clicking noises under his tongue, and the bedraggled pigeons edge closer to him. He does not look up when he heard steps coming towards him, he does not stir, not even when another man sits next to him, with a sigh. 

A too-full (public school, the cold sound of privilege, the kind that makes Jim _twitch_ ) voice notes. “For a master of deception, you’re easy enough to find.” 

Jim’s heel twitches, startling a grey-mottled pigeon that had been peeking at it. “I let you find me.” 

They sit in silence for a while, before Jim speaks again. “You should change your hair.”

Sherlock sighs — and it is Sherlock, no one but him could be draped across a bench in such a fashion. It takes money to look so sloppy, Jim knows, and his hand twitches too, for the dust that’s blowing off Sherlock’s shoulders like snow. The man must have been solving a mystery in an flour-mill or some likely place. 

Sherlock, the rude boy, snorts. “I’m not taking fashion advice from _you._ ” 

Jim edges away from him. He does not particularly want to be seen with him. 

But he’s in the mood to make orders, Sherlock is. He says, “And stay away from them. From me.” 

“You can’t stop me.” Jim frowns. “And you don’t mean that.” 

He cocks his head, waiting for the insult to come. 

Quietly, Sherlock says, “Stop this.” 

Then, “I don’t know what you feel the need to pursue me in this way. For months now.” 

“Oh come on, you know better than that. It’s been years.” 

Sherlock raised his faintly brown eyebrows. “No. I would have noticed your … inquiries.” 

Jim shrugs, tossing the last of his breadcrumbs at the pigeons. The is a sudden flurry of beaks and feathers, all around them. To his surprise, Sherlock is still there at the end of it. 

Jim offers up this: “Here’s a possibility — maybe you aren’t as good as you think.” 

Sherlock is decided. “No. I’m better.” 

Jim laughs, a short bite of a laugh that did not linger. It surprises them both. His words, however, do not. “I’d let you do anything to me. I mean it, I do. And I’m a better match for you than that dull-as-ditch-water doctor you have now —” 

“John and I aren’t—” 

“I don’t give a shit what you two aren’t,” he pauses, unnecessarily, “doing.” 

He gets up then, and brushes off his coat, and tosses the paper bag on to the ground. 

(Littering, after all, is the least of his crimes.)

Conversationally, he says, “Next time I see you, I will kill you.” 

And Sherlock gives him a lazy grin, all sharp teeth and narrowed eyes. “So you say.” 

“It’ll be true one day.” 

\+ 

Mycroft Holmes is easy to play, once his weak points reveal themselves. Moriarty blinks in the gloom, his pupils blown wide. He says, “I’ll tell you everything.” Mycroft leans close, anticipation playing on his thin features. 

“Yes?”

But. “There’s only a little thing you have to do for me.” 

“For you?” Mycroft’s face twist. Oh, yes. He looks much like his brother, then. “You are not in a position to make bargains.” 

Moriarty nods, gravely. He’s defeated, surely, surely that was so. “I don’t want anything.” 

Mycroft smirks. 

“Nothing. Except. Tell me about your brother?” 

Mycroft’s face falls. 

Moriarty continues, oblivious. “It must gall you, that your younger brother will be all they remember about the Holmes name. And after all the hard work you’ve done to establish yourself, to convince everyone that you aren’t like him, that _you_ can be trusted...” 

He hums, sighs. “Not _unstable_ , like him.” 

To his surprise, Mycroft starts laughing. He waits for him to finish, as patiently as he can, which isn’t very. He twitches. 

After recovering himself, Mycroft says, “I was told you were better at manipulation than that.” He gets up, makes his way to the exit. As he retreats, he says, “You won’t see me again.” 

Moriarty shrugs (he tried) and lets him go. And he stays silent for another forty days, until Mycroft comes around again. 

The moment he entered the cell, Moriarty asks, “What did he want to be when he grew up?” 

Mycroft shakes his head. “A fact for a fact.” 

“Done.”

\+ 

Sherlock’s face is carefully pulled into a blank. He says, “The kettle’s on. The tea will be ready in a few minutes.” 

Jim nods. “I can wait.” 

(It is just that he doesn’t want to.) 

Sherlock frowns. “I didn’t time it right.”

_Impossible._

Jim’s hands clasped over his heart. “No, I was early.” 

(He’s still wheezing, after running up those creaky stairs.) 

They stare at eachother for a moment, before Jim takes a step forward. Sherlock takes a step back. Jim’s hands fly up. The jury’s verdict echoes between them — we find him innocent, your honor. “Not to worry, Sherlock. We’re just here for a civilized conversation. Look, you’re making tea.” 

(It can’t get more civilized than that. Right? No one, outside Marple, is ever murdered over tea.) 

Still, Sherlock tenses, but Jim can’t let him get off that easily, not this time. He crowds him, hems him in. Sherlock is taller that he is, and so Jim needs him to bend down, to listen. He waits, standing still and still totally invasive. (Sherlock is sensitive about his personal space.) 

Finally, stiffly, Sherlock bends down. Lends him his ear. 

“It’s just this once.” It didn’t matter who said it, but then again, it isn’t Jim who is speaking. 

Not this time. 

But then he does speak. “Yes.” 

_“Yes.”_

The only problem is that despite Jim’s (often repeated) assertions that he would love to do — everything — with Sherlock (to Sherlock), when presented with the opportunity to do exactly that, when he is confronted with the actual man himself, who is not grudging but _willing_ , he’s at a loss as to what he should do. 

Well. 

First thing’s first, that hair had to go. And since he can’t rip it from his scalp (just yet), he can gather it up in his hand and give it a good hard yank, just short of hurting, and revealing Sherlock’s white (pasty) throat. 

(Hurting was for later.) 

“Oh, I’ve fantasized about this. Loads of times.” No harm in saying what they both knew. But Sherlock is shaking himself out of his own stupor, shaking himself out of Jim’s grasp, oh no, oh no. He takes Jim’s wrist and twists, and twists until Jim lets go. 

His face is unreadable, his breathing is quick, there is a bright red flush building creeping up his neck, to his face. 

“There’s got to be some rules.” 

Jim can’t keep a smile from his lips. Well, it’s more of a leer than anything else. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, rules happen to other people, baby.” Sherlock winces, and Jim is beside himself with glee. 

And Sherlock isn’t — moving away, isn’t fighting — which is deflating in ways even Jim doesn’t want to deconstruct. 

(Yet.) 

Over the sound of snagging zippers and buttons, he hisses, “Watch it, don’t wrinkle the suit! It’s dry-clean only!” 

+  
“Oh, Christ, you’re ugly,” he says, panting. 

He tastes the blood from his split lip, and it pleases him to know that the same taste is also on Sherlock’s lips. He grits his teeth and wants. He wants everything so badly, and he can’t imagine that Sherlock did not want it too. 

Be ugly for me, he wants to say. Don’t you see how much I like it? 

Instead, he touched his bloody mouth, and nods in acknowledgement. (But not defeat, never that.) He gestures at Sherlock’s face. “Looks good on you.” 

Sherlock’s face twists. 

Anger, disgust fighting with curiosity. He’s expressive, in ways Jim would never let himself be. (No. Not ever.) 

Even now, his heart beating excitedly in his chest, Jim’s face is deliberately blank. 

 

Well, except for a small smirk (that cracks his mask, he’s only human, after all.) 

 

\+ 

Sherlock, naked, is a nightmare that Jim will always treasure. 

And really, it isn’t Jim’s fault that he laughs. 

Anyone would. 

But still he rubs his mouth, sheepish, and makes up for it. 

\+ 

The fire alarm is bleating. 

The kettle has boiled dry. 

 

\+ 

 

And the next time they see each other — 

 

There’s a cold-metal taste of a gun in his mouth. 

There’s the last fatal _click._

Then, an enormous vacuum of light and pain. 

(Of course he'd die to prove a point, _of course_.) 

And Sherlock is falling ever downward, the wind whips at his coat — if Jim’s brains weren’t already splattered over the roof, he would have been _so pleased._

**Impact.**

(The doctor is _howling_.)

 

— It’s as he said it would be.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and epigraph from e.e. cummings, of course.


End file.
